Christmas at 221B
by Legolas.I.am
Summary: What if it had been John's feelings that Sherlock called out on instead of Molly's. Set during the Christmas episode. Warning: SLASH


"Oh, no thank you, Sarah." Sherlock smiled with mock kindness at the tall, dark woman with her almost black hair pulled up on the top of her head over her unsettlingly thin face.

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as John swooped in and attempted to cover Sherlock's slip up, which of course was entirely on purpose. Sherlock didn't know or particularly care why he felt such a strong abhorrence for the women John occasionally dragged in from whatever back alley Sherlock was sure he found them in nor why he found such enjoyment in making it clear to each and every one of them that they were utterly unimportant, but he did and who was he to argue with himself?

John knew he was bluffing. John was getting better at picking up on those kinds of things, something Sherlock was not sure how he felt about.

No sooner had John whisked away the offended wench that Molly came walking, simultaneously electing an involuntary cringe from Sherlock. He was about to comment on the very obvious box peeking out the top of the painfully Christmassy bag she had just set on the floor, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, John caught his eye and gave him a slow shake of the head, silently telling him what he was about to do was bad.

Sherlock obeyed the gesture, albeit begrudgingly, and suddenly felt a swell of anger in his chest as he stared from John to the annoying hag beside him, who had apparently thought it appropriate to rest her unkempt talons on John's leg.

"Fine, John," Sherlock suddenly spat from his chair, glaring at the rather surprised older man, "fine, if you want to save _her_ feelings so badly, I suppose you won't mind stepping in as her substitute."

"Sherlock, take a day off," John begged exasperatedly.

"Let's take a look over at John's pile of gifts he is waiting to bestow upon us then!" Sherlock grinned maliciously as he stared at the stack of presents sitting at John's feet, making John shudder, "one of these does stand out… Perfectly wrapped with a bow, while all the others are slapdash at best, including the one for Margret here, which I know since I watched him wrap it myself."

"Jeanette." John corrected, shooting Sherlock a warning look, but the detective was too far into it now to notice as he plucked the wrapped box from the top of John's pile.

"It's for someone else then. Someone special. Oh, sorry, not you, Gretchen, better luck next time. The shade of red echoes his sweater, either an unconscious association or one that he has deliberately tried to encourage. Either way, Dr. Watson has love on his mind, however, not for the woman beside him. The fact that he is serious about this person is clear from the fact that he's giving them a gift at all. That always suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn, and that he's seeing them tonight. Evident from his cleanly shaven face and meticulously styled hair, obviously trying to compensate for that God awful sweater and his insecurity about the size of his…" Sherlock trailed off, his rant coming to a screeching halt as he fingered open the little paper card and saw what was written inside:

"_Merry Christmas, Sherlock_

_From: John"_

For the first time since Sherlock had met John, he dreaded looking into his eyes. He had fucked up, and there was no way to fix it now.

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock raised his head to look at John.

John was not looking away in embarrassment or shame, like Sherlock had expected. Instead, John was doing something much, much worse: John was staring directly into Sherlock's pale green-grey eyes with a look of complete and total betrayal.

John looked like he was about to burst into tears and Sherlock had no idea what to do. He was glued to the floor, paralyzed as his stomach dropped to his feet and his heart broke in two. He didn't see all the other shocked, angry faces staring at him; all he saw was John.

He had betrayed John, and for what? Why? Because John had been doing his job as a friend and saving him from yet another social blunder? What had Sherlock done in return for John's kindness, his loyalty?

Sherlock had humiliated him, embarrassed him over something that was so utterly delicate that it had just taken those few sentences to shatter it completely.

"John…" Sherlock felt like his throat had dried up, "John, I'm sorry… I'm sorry… forgive me."

"Forgive you?" John's voice was strained, a mixture of anger, and something much sadder, unmistakable in every syllable, "you want me to forgive you? You fucking bastard! They were right about you, all of them, all of them who told me to stay away from you. They told me you were a psychopath and I was going to end up getting hurt and… they were right. I should have never moved in with you, should have never fallen for all your stupid little magic tricks. You don't care about anyone but yourself, and I was a fool for ever believing otherwise!"

Sherlock was utterly speechless. He tried think of anything to say that would help, anything to comfort John, anything to show John that he was wrong. He couldn't though, he couldn't think of anything, so he watched in horror as John stood up and shoved his way passed the stunned consulting detective.

"John," Sherlock managed to rasp, desperation covering his normally carefree features, "John, please, I… just let me explain…"

"I think you've explained plenty," John's voice quavered dangerously as he pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck, never once looking back at the man boring desperate holes in the back of his head, "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be 'round tomorrow to get my things..." then there was a pause that seemed to last years, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes."

Then, without giving anyone time to reply, John was gone, leaving the room heavy with the most uncomfortable silence any of them had ever felt.

"Well, Sherlock," Lestrade was the first to break the thick quiet, "I must say, I'm disappointed in you. I really was starting to believe that John was going to be the one person you didn't push away. I'm impressed, once again, by your cleverness; you really had me convinced that you cared about him, but obviously I was wrong."

"I didn't know!" Sherlock defended, bristling defensively, "I didn't know he felt…"

"It doesn't bloody matter, now does it?" Lestrade spat, "it doesn't matter if you knew, Sherlock! The fact is that you did that at all. No matter if John felt that way about you or not; when you did that, Sherlock, you were intentionally trying to humiliate him, just to prove how clever you are. Well, congratulations, you are very clever. I hope you're pleased with yourself."

"Of course I'm not pleased with myself," Sherlock scowled, "don't be ridiculous."

"Too bad, then," Lestrade shook his head, "because you just drove away the one person in this whole world that has ever truly loved the great, unbearable Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade did not anticipate the blow to the face Sherlock suddenly sent his way, and was knocked out of his chair because of it.

He looked up, dazed, at Sherlock, who was breathing heavily, his pupils dilated.

"Shut up," Sherlock growled, "shut up. I didn't do that to embarrass John, or to prove that I'm clever. I did it to embarrass her," Sherlock pointed his finger accusingly at the shocked, still slightly confused, woman sitting on the couch, "because I always do that, don't I?" Sherlock laughed and ran a hand through his hair, "every time John brings home some new tramp, I have to give every effort to drive her away; I pretend to forget their names, pretend to forget what they do or why they are there in the first place. It's all in some desperate attempt to keep John all to myself and… I've never understood why…"

"Because you're a bloody idiot, that's why," Molly piped in, her voice stern, "you never let anyone love you, you stupid bastard. You have to drive everyone away because you are a coward, Sherlock Holmes, a terrible, stupid coward. You never appreciate anyone, ever, and you always say the most awful things. Always."

Sherlock was staring frantically from the sniveling Molly to the bleeding Lestrade, not sure what to do or what to say.

He had no idea how to handle the situation and nothing in his vast mind palace of a brain could help him now.

Then his phone rang.

Hoping it was John, Sherlock quickly flipped the device open and pressed it to his ear.

"Don't look so excited, little brother, it's just me," Sherlock's face and heart dropped, "take advice from your big brother, just this once, will you, Sherlock? Stop wasting your time defending yourself and go find John. For Gods sakes, if you let him get away, there is absolutely no guarantee that we will ever find you someone who will ever be able to tolerate you like he does. Stop pouting and go get him. You don't want to end up middle aged and alone like me, do you?"

"God no," Sherlock almost smiled into the phone.

"Then go out there and get him," Mycroft sighed exasperatedly into the phone.

"Where is he?"

"How should I know?"

"Because you always know."

"He's in the park. Bring an umbrella, it's going to rain."

Sherlock clicked the phone shut and did not spare the staring audience so much as a glance as he walked quickly to where his coat and scarf lay, slipped them on, and headed out the door.

Sherlock found John sitting on a park bench five minutes later. Just as he was about to alert John of his presence, the sky gave an alarming crack and a few wet droplets began to fall. Within seconds, the droplets escalated into a downpour and Sherlock silently thanked Mycroft as he opened up the advised umbrella.

Sherlock didn't say anything as he sat down beside John, moving the umbrella so it kept both of them dry.

John didn't look up at him, and he wasn't sure if the water dripping off the doctor's nose and onto his folded hands was rain or tears, but Sherlock suspected both.

"You'll catch a cold out here, John," Sherlock stated quietly, hoping to start a conversation.

John didn't answer him.

"You of all people should know the health risks of prolonged exposure to cold, wet conditions when only in a light coat."

No reply.

"You'll regret it tomorrow when you're stuck in bed with a cough so bad you won't even be able to call down to Mrs. Hudson for a cup of tea."

"I'm not going back," John said finally. His voice was harsh, but the anger couldn't hide the pain buried in the words.

"Of course you're going back," Sherlock frowned, "you have to; all your things are there."

"I'm moving out."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock quipped nervously, "you have to stay. You need that rush of adventure, John, it's what keeps you sane."

"And you make me insane!" John shouted, lifting his head suddenly and glaring at Sherlock.

The detective's heart sunk as he looked into John's red, puffy eyes, where tears were welling heavily before spilling down his cheeks in unrelenting streams.

"John," Sherlock wasn't sure what to say, but he didn't have to, John wasn't finished.

"Shut up! Just shut up for once, will you?" John barked, the tears falling even faster, "why do you always… why do you always have to… why can't you just… be normal for once?"

Sherlock tried to pretend like that didn't hurt him, but John had always had the unfortunate ability to make Sherlock feel emotions he had never had before and had never wanted.

Sherlock couldn't think of a reply.

As the silence drug out, the detective turned his head away from John, so as not to let the doctor see the pain in his face.

"Why did you have to do that? I was just trying to help you," John sniffed pathetically.

"I know," Sherlock cringed

"Why'd you have to open your big, bloody mouth? Why couldn't you just take one day off?"

"Well, why couldn't you have just told me?" Sherlock was getting defensive, which was never good.

"Told you what? There is nothing to tell!" John snapped, face burning and tears still falling.

Sherlock fell silent as cold dread crept up his spine. Did John mean that he didn't have feelings for him anymore? Had he really just driven away the one person he had ever loved?

He wasn't used to the cocktail of emotions running through him, he couldn't handle them, he couldn't breathe and his heart was pounding. "J-John…" Sherlock stammered, his voice cracking as he attempted to calm himself, "John, please… I… I don't know what to do…"

John stared at the detective for a moment before his anger melted into a much mellower, but no less painful, sorrow, "don't, just don't," John put his head in his hands in exasperation, "don't pretend to feel things just to make me come back." Sherlock visibly flinched at the accusation, but John continued, "I've seen you pretend before, and it's all very convincing, but, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather you just stop."

Sherlock was shaking now, some mixture of hurt and grief and anger boiling just under the surface of the normally cold detective, but John took no notice.

"I'm tired of this, Sherlock," John frowned into his palm, "I refuse to be like Molly and follow you around like a love sick puppy, taking whatever abuse you give because I want you to feel the same way. I will not keep on living in the flat just so I can receive awkward looks from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and sympathetic looks from Molly and constant insensitive remarks from you every day!"

"Is that what you think I'll do?" Sherlock asked, his voice quavering unnaturally, "You think I'll belittle you for how you feel? Am I really such a monster to you?"

"You haven't exactly proven yourself otherwise when it comes to other people." John scowled

"That's other people, John!" Sherlock barked, "Other people, not you! Don't you get it? Don't you see? Do you really think I would share a flat and run through the streets of London with just anyone? Do you think I would rely on and trust my life with just anyone? You are not just anyone, John, not to me. Don't you get that?"

"But… you…" John was staring at Sherlock like a deer in the headlights, not used to the younger man showing so much emotion all at once.

"But, I, John, _I _am the man who drives away every woman you try to connect with because I want you all to myself! That's what I was trying to do when I said those things, John, I was trying to embarrass _her_, not you! Never you, John." Sherlock was staring into the older man's wide blue eyes now, not holding anything back, "I want you to live in the flat with me, John. I want me and you to always live in flat 221b on Bakers Street, solving ridiculous crimes together and talking to clients together! I can't… just not have you there." Sherlock was out of breath now, but he still couldn't stop. Some dam had been opened in the sociopath and there was no closing it now, not until he finished, "what do you say? Come home with me?"

"Sherlock…" John was still staring at the other man, shock clear on his face, tears long stopped, and rain forgotten.

"I promise you won't get bored," Sherlock smiled, "and I promise I'm not as intimidated by intercourse as everyone seems to believe."

At that, Sherlock stood so he was in front of John, taking special care to keep the umbrella over the shocked man even though he got wet because of it.

"Please, John," Sherlock pleaded, offering his hand to the doctor, "I need you."

"You bastard," John smiled, taking Sherlock's hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, "How am I supposed to say no when you say things like that?"

"Exactly," Sherlock grinned before planting a soft, cautious kiss on John's forehead, making them both feel slightly lightheaded.

When John and Sherlock walked through the door to the flat, Sherlock soaked through and John relatively dry, they weren't sure what or who to expect.

No sooner had they closed the door behind them that Mrs. Hudson's frantic voice erupted from upstairs.

"Oh, Sherlock, please tell me you found John!" the old woman begged as her hurried footsteps echoed down to the pair before their source ever set foot on the ground level.

"Of course I did, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock smiled at the woman before looking down at John, "I wouldn't have come back without him."

"Of course," Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly, taking note of how Sherlock was staring softly into John's eyes, begging the shorter man to realize the truth behind what he had just said, "how silly of me to think otherwise. Well," she couldn't help but to giggle, "you boys go head on upstairs and help each other dry off, God knows wet clothes are a nightmare to pull off on your own."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock scolded softly, never breaking eye contact with John, "don't be crude."

Mrs. Hudson giggled as a reply before turning away from the men and shuffling off to her own rooms.

"Come on then," John smiled nervously, "let's get you dried off."


End file.
